21st Century Orc Page 3

  Houses made from sheet metal were stacked atop one another, connected by thick wires and bones of the great wylder beasts. The Orc chewed his lip as he glanced up to the peak of the mountain, where the skull of the last Great Dragon peeked out from the mess of structures blanketing it. Amidst all the dark grey of rock and steel, the red of lights and banners, the white bones gleamed in the moonlight. The whole mountain swayed in the breeze, as if a single sneeze could bring it down.

  The lights turned red as the streets narrowed to the point of non-existence, the entire atmosphere of the world shifting. Strange creatures not meant for the light of day appeared to crowd the tiny streets. All shapes and sizes, though not of all creeds. Most were, in fact, quite unacceptable to polite society. The Orc slumped past a goblin whore taken from her home in the deep southern isles, nodding to her rock troll pimp as the Orc admired her wrinkled tits, his eyes flashing gold.

  Perhaps another time.

  For all the criminals and ne’er-do-wells crowding the narrows, there was not one fight or even a hint of chaos. Instead of conflict, there was something else in the air. Fear. It was a quiet fear. A type of fear that hid under the skin, but a fear that ran deep. A good kind of fear. One that kept the peace.

  In return for his subjects’ complete and utter surrender, the Warchief granted them peace, personal freedoms and stability unrivaled in all of Tao Ein. A whore who paid could walk from one end of the Narrows to the other without fear of her life. Even other “lawful” districts of Tao Ein couldn’t claim the same.

  Unlike the Iron Breakers or the Squirrels, the Warchief did not impose a creed or personal restrictions on his subjects. Anyone with sufficient willpower and the money necessary could almost conduct legitimate business under the Warchief’s supervision. “Almost” being the operative word. Bending the rules and testing the limits was part of the culture in Tao Ein. Still… There wasn’t even a major drug problem because of how efficiently the Warchief enforced his own law. His Warboyz brought swift and brutal justice to anyone who tried to usurp the Warchief’s control and bring chaos to the Narrows—for a daily fee, of course. And those who didn’t pay the fee… well. The Orc smiled.

  All in all, the Narrows were actually rather pleasant, almost peaceful.

  Too bad the Orc was about to ruin said peace.

  Squeezing in a narrow crevasse between two slanted skyscrapers, he reached into his coat, fingers brushing the army fatigues underneath as he pulled out his rifle. A trusty Dakka. The same one he stole from an enemy soldier back in Ankadora. His green thumb paused on the safety. His mouth went dry, hands dripping sweat. His blood started pounding. His eyes turned white. Memories started squirming their way into his mind.

  Just as the past tried to drag him away, the Orc shook his head and reached into his pockets, pulling out a handful of glittering dust. He sniffed. The dust filled his lungs and heart, engulfing him in a deep gold glow for the briefest of seconds as he rose a couple inches off the ground. For a second, all his worries disappeared. All emotions except for pure ecstasy melted away. The Orc smiled and dropped back to earth.

  His hands kept trembling, however.

  The Orc growled to himself as he picked himself up and continued on his little journey, hopping out of the crevasse into a small clearing. It was an old slam-ball court with a couple of spike balls lying on the ground around the main totem. A small smile creased the Orc’s ruined face. He itched to play against someone.

  Unfortunately, the five other orcs in the court didn’t look too keen on playing. Though they hadn’t noticed the intruder yet, either.

  Four young orcs, lanky and awkward, surrounded an older orc, dressed in ancient battle-armor, who sported a beard peppered with grey. The older orc’s armor was built from iron bands, decorated with pictures of the broken gods and covered in feathers. The intruding Orc snorted. The terrifying image was slightly dampened by the old orc’s exposed pot belly, which had the Warboyz’ signature tattoos emblazoned across the green skin.

  The old Warboy’s belly jiggled, glowing gears and flames rippling, as he continued his sermon.

  “Come my brothers, abandon these chains that you have wrapped around your own throats. Reject this cursed world of elves and dwarves, who have done nothing but break us, rip us from our homes, systematically put us in the ‘university’s’ cells, murder us in the name of their so-called ‘law’ since the second they arrived. Join the Warchief and his horde in service to the old gods!” barked the Warboy as he spread his arms wide. “Join us as we cleanse this world of the weak and non-orcs!”

  Ah… the Orc smiled. How simple to channel the natural aggression of the young orcs desperate for some action. Pit them against the world and the orcs would never run out of foes.

  For all the peace that the Warchief inspired, he was still a war chief. He needed an enemy. So the Orc would give him one.

  Pounding his chest, sending tremors of light through his tattoos, the Warboy barked, “Raise your hand if you—”

  The Orc, his eyes flashing crimson and gold, fired his rifle five times.

  Five corpses fell to the ground.

  Whistling, the Orc strode forward and dipped his fingers into the old Warboy’z stomach wound. His fingers came away red. Good.

  The Orc started drawing onto the old Warboy’s belly, over the tattoo. He traced out a flower amidst the flames. Then he smiled as he admired his handiwork and dipped his fingers back into the blood.

  Just one more thing.

  “Momma G sends her regards,” the Orc wrote under the flower and flames.

  He hummed as he left the corpses behind. He had a busy night ahead.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Elvenheim

  Blight, Gore hated school. Well, not the school per say. Just the classes, professors and students. And maybe the buildings as well.

  So pretty much everything.

  She hated school.

  Turning the music volume up until her headphones vibrated against her skull, orchestral brass and horn strings drowning out all sounds, Gore sighed as she got off the mastodon bus. Blinking into the morning sunlight, growling and muttering curses all the way, Gore walked a mile through a row of perfect little elven houses to her college. In the golden rays, the white walls glared at Gore, forcing her to keep her eyes on the concrete. She tried to let the music sweep her away. But the notes wouldn’t hook into her brain as they usually did.

  Her brother’s arrival twisted a cold knot in her stomach.

  Damned walk, Gore cursed, checking the time. Took her more than an hour to reach the campus from the bus. No wonder most students lived on campus or in the surrounding neighborhoods.

  Gore glanced up at the white paint gleaming amidst the trees, at the circular windows carved into the trunks of red oaks. She could never afford a night here, much less two years. Even in the slums, Gore couldn’t relax. Paycheck by paycheck, dollar leaf by dollar leaf, Gore clung onto her place in this damned world by her Blighted tusks. If she slipped for even a moment, she would fall back to where she belonged, with the rest of her kind in the slums. Even now, Gore twitched as she thought of her apartment in the Narrows. The protection fees weighed on her, a constant drain on her wallet and psyche.

  Once she finished her major and got a good job, however…

  Gore entertained herself by imagining her house sitting in the middle of the suburbs. Not a prim and pretty tree house with elvish script and hanging gardens, but an squat orc house covered with Shasta bones and graffiti. Would definitely bring the value of the neighborhood down. Then more orcs would probably come in and invade the elvish suburbs, a long-coming revenge for the elves invading the orcish homelands.

  If Gore just had the money… her mind, despite her best efforts to the contrary, turned back to Bones’s Blight-brained scheme. With five million dollar leafs, Gore could buy the entire neighborhood. Or better yet, buy the college. Hmm, Gore mused on the idea for a long time as she passed by her college’s Bloodball fields, starin
g at the castles at the center of campus through the fence. Elves and dwarves swarmed the battlements, running to classes. Her lips twisted into a grin as Gore marched into her college, other students milling about in her path.

  A grin that quickly dropped away as a shadow crossed over Gore.

  Taking off her headphones, Gore turned around.

  “Can I help you, Ma’am?” growled a voice from Gore’s right. She blinked, lifting her gaze from the concrete to meet the slitted eyes of another cop. Or at least, the cheap version employed by the college. “Are you lost?”

  The fat cop beat his baton in his furred hands, advancing on Gore and trying to edge her away from the college. A few heads turned towards Gore, a few dwarves and halflings, but no one did a damned thing. They just turned her heads away, noses in the air, ignoring someone in need.

  Gore hated her fellow students.

  “No. I am a student here,” said Gore, stepping to the side in order to get around the fat bastard.

  The cop just stepped right back into her path. He snarled, “Unfortunately, there’s been reports of gang related violence in the area. Us cops have been warned to keep our noses ready for any… ‘suspicious’ individuals.”

  In other words, any orcs.

  “Any ‘suspicious’ features that currently align with my appearance?” asked Gore, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

  “Well… let’s see… tall. Musclebound. Tusks. And greenskin… So I’m gonna need to see some ID. Cough it up,” ordered the cop, motioning for Gore to hand him over her wallet.

  “Of course, officer,” sighed Gore, her eyes flashing red, reaching into the back pocket of her jeans for her worker ID card, cursing inwardly. Blight. “Just give me a minute. Or five.”

  Despite the lack of any gang related tattoos, despite her clean white shirt and jeans, despite the lack of any suspicious qualities, and despite her best efforts, Gore was still an orc. She stood head and shoulders over even the tallest elf. She was still a threat in everyone else’s mind.

  Gore hated herself.

  And her hatred deepened as she failed to find her ID card in her backpocket. Just a few scraps of steel and loose screws.

  “Blight…” said Gore as she checked her other pockets, a bright flush taking over her face. “Blight… no… where is it?”

  Did she misplace the ID card somehow? No, Gore shook her head, opening her backpack this time and shuffling through her research papers. Then Gore pat down her jeans again and realized in a hiss that she had given Bones the pair with her ID in them.

  “Damn you, brother…” hissed Gore under her breath. And damn herself most of all for having a heart.

  “There a problem, Ma’am?” asked the cop again, a sadistic smile split his face, exposing long canniness as the cop stepped forward again.

  “Nope. Not at—”

  “Cause if you don’t have an ID, I can’t let you onto our fine campus,” smirked the cop as he nodded to some elvish students passing by him into the college. None of them showed any form of identification.

  A dozen pairs of eyes stared at Gore. A dozen mouths whispered to one another, saying, “What’s that thing doing here?”

  “You think she wanted to rob us?” said another.

  “What a tramp…”

  “…Filth…”

  “Go away…”

  The cop chuckled to himself, clearly feeding off of the crowd’s whispers like a direwolf off mouflon.

  Jagd them, jagd them all, Gore thought as her blood boiled within her skull, turning back to the cop and growling, “Call Professor Potter. He’ll vouch for me. Please. I just forgot my ID card. If you would do something useful for once and call him, we can end this little show.”

  Oops. Gore cursed herself. Rule number one. She had forgotten rule number one. The rule that superseded even “jagd the police.”

  Unless backed into a corner, never piss off an authority figure’s ego.

  “I don’t like your tone of voice, miss. Are you trying to resist arrest?” demanded the cop, snatching his walkie-talkie up and shouting, “I need backup at the entrance! Come in. I will be bringing the suspect into custody now. Over”

  “Oh, come on,” sighed Gore, grinding her tusks, raising her hands above her head. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, I am completely, positively, absolutely, rooting-tooting serious, Miss,” barked the cop as he pulled out a pair of hand cuffs from his belt. “Now just stand still and no one will get hurt.”

  Except for Gore. She growled, glancing at her watch. She needed to get to Professor Potter’s lab and start her job five minutes ago. She needed that job and the money…

  But if she tried to actually resist… Gore gulped, eyes flashing black and sliding over the cop as the werewolf edged forward. Well, best not to think about it. Stuck between a rock and certain death, Gore chose the rock.

  Wrapping one paw around Gore’s wrists, the cop murmured, “You Blighting little greensk—”

  Her lips curling back, her eyes flaring red, the air around her hissing in steam, Gore’s blood boiled in an instant, and her hands curled into twin fists. Tilting her body forward, letting gravity pull her down as her legs bunched up beneath, Gore started to lunge forward, to rip out the cop’s throat—

  “Stop!” cried a voice. Deep, but oddly feminine.

  The orc and the werewolf stopped as one, turning to see a short but thick mass of flesh emerge from under the churning mess of students. Bright colors mixed with pure black. Then the mass leapt forward, arching through the air, and tackled Gore to the side.

  “Finally found you,” roared the voice, drawing the eyes of almost everyone in the crowd. The voice, despite the diminutive stature of its owner, boomed out to the Silver coast. Gore smiled. Dwarven vocal cords couldn’t be underestimated. “Come on, you’re late for practice!”

  “Ma’am,” began the cop, stepping forward, reaching out to grab the female dwarf’s bare shoulder. “Please, could you—”

  “Oh, thank you, Officer,” interrupted the dwarf as she pulled Gore onto her feet. “No need to worry! Me and my friend just need to hurry off to class! Come on, Gore, you’re late! Everyone’s waiting for you! Come on! Come on!”

  “No. Wait. Stop!” barked the cop, snarling and grabbing the dwarf’s wrist, squeezing hard. The dwarf yelped. Gore growled and stepped forward as the cop hissed, “I’m not gonna just let some jagding Greenskin walk away.”

  “Did you just jagding touch me?” screamed the dwarf, slapping the cop’s hand away and backpedalling towards a group of students. “He jagding tried to grope me! Anyone record that?”

  “What?” asked one student as they pulled out their scryers. Recording lights started flashing.

  “Wait, what?” asked another.

  “He tried to do what?”

  “Did you—”

  “I saw him touch her!”

  “Look, he’s coming again!”

  “Someone grab him!”

  How fickle, Gore sniffed, how quickly the students turned when someone pointed their attention to a new target. But she couldn’t look a gift gryphon in the mouth.

  The cop hissed and flinched back, as if each of the accusing eyes shot a bullet through him. His ego deflated somewhat now that the crowd had turned against him. Gore smiled.

  Sucks, doesn’t it?

  Taking advantage of the confusion as several students rushed forward to confront the cop, the dwarf carried Gore right past the crow and through the gates of Elvenheim, not stopping until they stood under the shadow of an archway, away from prying eyes.

  “Woo! What an asshole,” gasped the dwarf, wiping her forehead as she beamed out a ray of happiness. Then she leapt up to shove her face into Gore’s, chirping, “But we showed him, didn’t we?”

  “Hehe… yeah, we did, Debbie,” said Gore, leaning back away from the dwarf, Gore’s face burning from the proximity to another living being. Gore let the red drain from her vision and forced her eyes back to their natu
ral gold. “How are you this fine morning?”

  “Great. Great. Just thought of this awesome dance number my team’s gonna perform next week.” Debbie shook out her arms and did a perfect pirouette, before somersaulting in the air and doing several twirls on her hands. The golden scales sewn into Debbie’s pants sparkled in the light, transforming into a whirlwind of gold. “We got a couple recitals coming up. What do you think?”

  Gore applauded, “Not bad for a three hundred pound ballerina.”

  “Low center of gravity,” chirped Debbie as she flipped back onto her feet, whipping a good four feet of multi-color hair around, which Gore narrowly avoided getting smacked by. The dwarf inspected herself for a moment, readjusting her low-cut shirt and checking her thick mascara. Gore inspected Debbie as well. The dwarf asked, “How do I look?”

  “Beautiful as always,” laughed Gore, half-joking, blushing and leaning against the cool stones. She looked away before Debbie could notice.

  “Ah, shucks. You’re always so sweet.” Debbie made a mock curtsy. “You know…”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t even let me finish! At least hear me out for saving your considerable ass back there.”

  “Fine.” Gore rolled her eyes in mock exasperation.

  “We’re always looking for new members for my dance team. And you definitely could bring some… assets to the dance floor.” Debbie smiled, winking at the she-orc’s body.

  Gore rolled her eyes again. Even a year after they had been roommates together in the dorms, Debbie still liked pretending to “flirt” with Gore. Even though Gore knew Debbie didn’t swing that way. Gore blushed a little more.